


Innocent Question

by Shoulder_Devil



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Voice, spoilers for episode 92
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 15:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13662162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoulder_Devil/pseuds/Shoulder_Devil
Summary: He didn't mean to compel Daisy, it was an accident.





	Innocent Question

If Daisy was going to be spending more time in the Magnus Institute then she sure as hell wanted to know the layout of the damned place.  She needed to be aware of every way in and out. Needed to know all the secluded spots that someone, or something, could lie in wait. None of the spooky freaks here were going to sneak up on her.

Most staff she encountered while scouring the upper levels had the decency to scurry away quickly when they saw her. Once though, a thin, dark haired man she had never seen before locked eyes and gave her a knowing nod.  The familiarity of the gesture raised her hackles. She turned to watch him head in the direction of Artifact Storage and decided to let him go. 

 _Freak_. She thought after him.

She had been through the place before, more than once. The former detective hadn’t paid much mind to anything other than the crime scenes themselves when she was here on the job. There was far too much work to be done then for her to wander the halls like a fucking tourist.  Most of that time was spent in the Archives or the tunnels beneath them.  Daisy wasn’t about to map a tangled mess of subterranean hallways, knowing where they attached to the Institute would do.  At least for now.

She’d saved checking out the Archives until last, hoping that by the time she got there everyone would have left for the day. The stairs leading to the basement lacked the grandeur of those that lead upwards.  They opened out to a foyer space with doors leading to a small kitchenette, storage room, bathroom, and the Archives themselves.

The kitchenette was pretty standard with a sink, small refrigerator, microwave, and electric kettle. The bathroom was utilitarian but functional. In the storage room, Daisy found all manner of office and janitorial supplies. Rapping her knuckles at intervals along the walls, she noted the vaguely hollow sound coming from a section of wall that looked newer than the rest.

The main Archive was a large L shaped room, crammed with mismatched bookcases and file cabinets arranged more or less in rows. Several desks dotted the walls but two had carved out spaces amongst the chaos.  A few of them had been claimed as work stations with desk lamps, computers, and varying personalization from the staff.  The rest were piled high with banker’s boxes and loose papers.

Two offices were set along the left-hand wall, an additional closet on the back, and he Head Archivist’s office around the bend on the right.  The rooms on the right were labeled Document Room and Recording Room respectively, a brass plaque on the first and a handmade sign on the latter.

The Recording Room was in better shape than the last time she’d seen it.  All traces of Bouchard’s handiwork had been cleaned away.  The desk inside had a laptop with a microphone hooked to it that didn’t look like it had been used in some time. Apparently, the staff didn’t seem to be keen on utilizing the recent crime scene in their day to day work.

 _Cowards._ Daisy thought to herself, _weak and pathetic._

She found a bloody goddamn tape recorder in the Documents Room. New Ikea shelving units crammed with file boxes lined the room.  Tucked in the corner was an army cot with a crocheted afghan tossed haphazardly over it. The shelves made it impossible for her to check the walls themselves but their newness spoke volumes. 

Daisy made her way across the Archive to Jon’s office, noting that the heaviest looking of the unused desks sat on the spot she remembered the trap door to be. Through the window in the door she could make out a large wooden desk that at one time had been rather beautiful. Years of use had left their scars in the dark stained wood giving it a very charity shop vibe. Listening for sounds of movement and hearing none she pushed open the door and stepped inside, stopping to close it behind her. 

Daisy repeated the process of knocking on the room’s walls. The external wall rang hollow under her hands and she made a mental note. Several holes from the tunnels had been knocked through into the Archives during that business with Prentiss last year.  So far, the destroyed sections she had come across had been replaced but not reinforced.

_Could they be hiding secret doors in the offices? I wouldn’t put it past them._

The sound of a recorder coming to life startled her out of her thoughts. She turned to see Jonathan, his face buried in a file folder, step into his office.  

 _How did I not hear him coming? Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, the monster._ Daisy shifted herself into a loose fighting stance. The last time the man could barely take a punch, but here? If proximity to the Archives made him stronger, she didn’t want to find out the hard way.

Her movement caught Jon’s eye and he glanced up from the file. His eyes widened in surprise and he took a half step back. “Detective Tonner, I- What… Can I help you?”

“Sims,” She ground out, “I was just leaving.”

“What are you doing in my office?”

Something slick and cold wormed its way into Daisy’s brain as her tongue developed that all too familiar itch. She narrowed her eyes shut and shook her head slightly. The feeling didn’t budge.

The Archivist went very pale then. Dropping the folder, his hands shot up in a placating gesture. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

Daisy crossed the distance in three quick steps.  Her right hand lashed out landing a blow directly to his throat, sharply cutting off his words.  The Archivist reeled back with a strangled cry of surprise and pain.

“Stop. Talking.” She forced out through clenched teeth.  The cold intrusion into her mind was fading but the itch on her tongue was still there, _begging_ to be scratched.

Sims eyes bulged as he clutched his neck, making strangled noises as he fought to breathe.  After a gurgling coughing fit that dropped him to one knee he was able to start pulling ragged, difficult sounding breaths into his lungs.

Daisy retrieved the pair of handcuffs she kept in her back pocket and snapped one of the bracelets around Jonathan’s unburned hand. Crouching down, she affixed the other to the sturdy desk leg. He was too focused on catching his breath to offer much in the way of resistance.

She wanted nothing more than to leave this… freak here and get the hell out of there.  Well, maybe not nothing, the itch was building, becoming unbearable. Rubbing her tongue against the roof of her mouth only served to make her more aware that the sensation had nothing in the way of a physical presence. 

“Goddammit,” she sighed, “you just-,“ she made a noise of frustration and stood up, fixing the man before her with a glare.  He continued to cough painfully between breaths but didn’t seem to be in immediate danger of losing consciousness.

“I was taking stock of all possible ways in and out of this hellhole.”  She began to pace restlessly around the office. “When I was here back in June there were all kinds of holes knocked through the walls down here.  Two, maybe three entrances to those fucking tunnels that lead to who knows where. One of them was in here and was checking for it. Then you came in and started asking _questions_ with that- that whatever the hell it is you do _._ ”

“ _I… I..._ ” Jon struggled a horse whisper out of his damaged throat. Strain crossed his face as he swallowed with difficulty.

“Yea, you didn’t mean to.  Sure. Whatever. You still did it though.  Do you have any idea what it feels like!? It’s not all smiles and tingles like with that smug little bastard upstairs.” She regarded him briefly. The itch had gone, she was free of his influence. “Well, as it turns out I don’t _have_ to tell you anymore.”

She turned to leave but stopped when a metallic rattle against wood caught her attention. Looking back over her shoulder, Daisy saw the Archivist give a weak tug on the handcuffs attaching him to the heavy desk.  He gave her a pleading look and drew in another jagged breath but made no attempt to speak.

“You know what?” She cocked her head and her mouth twitched in a half smile. “Think of it as a time out.  You sit there and think about what you’ve done. I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth until you are _damned sure_ you have your freaky monster power or whatever it is, under control.

“And if you _ever_ do that to me again,” she turned away and crossed the threshold, “you will wish I had killed you.”

Just before the door closed behind her, Daisy heard the _click_ of the recorder turning itself off.

* * *

 

Jon hadn’t meant to compel her, it had just, sort of, _happened_ . It wasn’t until he had seen her face _change_ that he even knew what he’d done and just how much trouble he was in. Before the realization had fully struck home, Daisy was in motion and his world exploded in agony. 

The feeling of being choked from the inside was worse than when she had the knife to his neck. There was no amount of scrabbling at his throat that could free him from throttling hands that weren’t actually there. Panic gripped him as he fought for breath. Once, twice, three times he tried unsuccessfully to force air through his spasming trachea.

Finally, blessedly, tortuously, a thin sip of air made it through to his lungs, setting off a chain reaction of fragmented coughing. The shock and pain of the ordeal dropped him to one knee. From somewhere far away he dimly registered pulling on his good hand. It didn’t matter, every fiber of his being was focused on securing a steady supply of air.

The initial shock from the blow started to bleed away allowing Jon to focus on getting himself under control. Now drawing shallow breaths through his damaged windpipe rather than the great strangled gasps that had only caught in his throat. He was coughing again but each successive breath was coming easier, wheezing aside.

Daisy was talking, something about checking the walls? Honestly, the rest of the world had gone more than a bit fuzzy.  The whole ordeal couldn’t have taken more than a minute, but from his perspective, the last few moments had stretched to infinity.  He was only now registering the handcuffs securing him to his desk and pulled at it in confusion.

_When did that happen?_

Desperate to keep the situation from escalating further, Jon tried to stammer out an apology. Trying to speak was like forcing words through sharp gravel and broken glass. He didn’t get very far but the detective gathered his intent nonetheless.

She wasn’t happy and Daisy laid into him. Jon was sure she was going to kick him but she managed to compose herself. Instead she opted to declare him in “time out” and left him alone in his office to “think about what he’d done”.

The click of the recorder startled him.  Was it turning on or turning off? Off seemed more likely, the damned things seemed to have a mind of their own.

 _Great, another tape of me getting my ass kicked._ Jon thought ruefully.

The Archivist took stock of his current situation from his vantage point half kneeling on the floor. The lathe work on the leg meant that he couldn’t work the cuff any lower than roughly two feet off the ground. The angle would be awkward but he might be able to break the sturdy wood if he kicked it hard enough. Depending on where the leg snapped it was likely the desk would collapse on his good hand before he could manage to pull it to safety though.

_One ruined hand is more than enough, thank you._

Shifting to a sitting position was more difficult than it should have been but he managed it. Jude Perry had done quite the number on his right hand, rendering it useless in any weight bearing capacity.   _Useless it in_ any _capacity really. At least the pain has retreated to a manageable background level. Like getting used to a particularly annoying noise._

He breathed out a bitter laugh that turned to a hiss of pain. He’d barely been back a week and already he was a prisoner in his own office. Again. Still.

 _Not sure which is worse, being figuratively bound to the Institute or being literally tied to my desk.  Neither is particularly ideal and both is just redundant._ Jon rested the back of his head on the desk and wearily closed his eyes.

He allowed himself a few moments to mope before shaking it off. Daisy was right about one thing, he needed to learn how to control his… ability. Apparently, he’d been using it on people for some time now.  Most people didn’t seem to notice but the things that could hurt him; Jude, Daisy, Mike, and Elias… could and they didn’t like it.

_Well everyone but Elias that is.  But let’s just skip right past that for the time being._

The thought of how his boss, his _keeper,_ had behaved after Jon had tried to compel him was… unsettling. His eyes had rolled back in his head and he had all but purred with pleasure. Certainly not the reaction he was expecting when he confronted the head of the Institute. Or rather it’s “beating heart” if Elias was to be believed, whatever the hell that meant.

It wouldn’t surprise Jon if Elias knew what had happened down in the Archives. Though, enough time had passed that if help was coming from the older man, it would have by now. Elias, like Jonah Magnus, would be content to watch and not to interfere. Maybe Elias was just waiting for Jon to ask. If that was the case, he would have to keep waiting. Jon wasn’t that desperate, yet.

Jon reached above his head with his burned hand and gingerly patted around on the top of the desk. If he could find a paper clip or a pen or something he might be able to use it to pick he cuffs keeping him there. He barked his hand against what he assumed to be the jar of Jane Prentiss’s ashes and bit back a yell of pain. Eventually his fingers brushed over a sack of papers secured with a binder clip. A bit of fidgeting and he managed to knock it into his lap.

His damaged fingers didn’t have the dexterity necessary to open the binder clip and he awkwardly shuffled the papers toward his cuffed hand to do the deed. Removing the metal bit from the plastic wasn’t something he could quite manage one handed.  He had the clip in his mouth and was trying to work it free when he heard the click of the recorder.

_Damnit, what now?_

Jon’s office wasn’t soundproofed like some of the other rooms in the Archive, so he was able to hear the faint voices coming from the other side of the door.  He was frozen for a moment, unsure if he should try and get their attention. If the recorder was running it could mean something dangerous was nearby.

The voices outside were getting closer, he could just about make out one of them saying, “No, you go on ahead, there’s something I need to grab from my desk first.” 

Probably Tim, he reasoned from the cadence. If any of his assistants were going to discover him like this he would have preferred for it to be someone sympathetic like Martin. _Well, at least it’s not Melanie, she would have a field day._

Jon sat up and pulled against his restraints. _“Help!”_ The word came out as barely a strangled whisper. Though less painful as he had feared, it was frustratingly quiet.

“ _Help, please!”_ he tried again, still no louder than before.  

Jon cast around for anything he could use to get the attention of whoever was outside. Eyeing his desk chair, he kicked out and knocked it to the floor with a crash.

The sounds of movement from within the archive stilled. Jonathan saw a shadow slowly approaching from under the door. “Hello? Who’s in there?”

Jonathan tried to call out to Tim but his voice refused to cooperate. Changing tactics, he began to bang the heel of his shoe on the floorboards.  Three quick strikes followed by three more, spaced farther apart then three more quick knocks on the floor. SOS.

“What the hell?” The door burst open to reveal Tim, coat over one arm and brandishing an umbrella in the other like he was ready for a fight. His gaze swept the room, finally landing on Jon.  Tim’s face went from intense and alert, to confusion, and finally to amusement.

Tim dropped his belongings on a low file cabinet by the door. Crossing his arms, he leaned casually against the door frame.

“What happened, forget your safe word?” Tim chuckled, eyeing the handcuffs.

Jon glowered up at Tim from the floor. Wincing as he cleared his throat, He opened his mouth to say something.  He managed a few croaking noises, but nothing resembling real words were forthcoming. He shook his head and gestured with his free hand toward his neck that ended in a shrug.

“Cat got your tongue?” Tim laughed, “Oh, this is rich!”

Martin’s voice drifted in from somewhere in the archives, “Tim? I thought I heard something, are you alright?”

Tim ducked his head out of the office to shout after Martin. “I’m fine Martin. Just knocked a few boxes off a shelf. I’ll get it sorted.”

“Do you need a hand?”

“Nah, it shouldn’t take long. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

“Sure thing.”

Jon watched the exchange with growing dread.  What was Tim playing at sending Martin away? He shifted awkwardly, pulling on his cuffed hand, acutely aware of how helpless the situation had made him. The noise of movement drew Tim’s attention back into the office.

Seeing the worried expression on Jon’s face, Tim sighed and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Jon, don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to hurt you. I never wanted to do that, despite everything that happened before—”

He sighed and continued on, “No matter what you suspected in your paranoid delusions, I never _actually_ wanted to hurt you. That’s not to say that I don’t find this situation deeply entertaining, because I do. Misery loves company and all that.”

Tim stood there for a moment watching the Archivist. He looked pathetic sitting there on the floor, one hand wrapped in bandages and the other hanging by silver handcuffs.  His face was red and patchy from previous exertion. The bruises on his neck that were only just noticeable last week had blossomed into nasty purple splotches, tinged with green and yellow on the edges.

The longer he looked at Jon the more his amusement shifted to pity. His time away from the institute had clearly taken a larger physical toll than his own abortive attempt. Despite all that, he could feel the low simmer of resentment start to boil into anger. He needed to get some things off his chest this was the best opportunity he was going to get.  

“Well, I guess now is as good a time as any.” Tim straightened himself to his full height. “We need to talk. Well, I need to talk and you need to listen.”

Jon’s expression relaxed and he nodded for Tim to continue.

“Right, so… You’re an ass. A complete and total ass. And I’m not even talking about all that stalker bullshit. Though now that I mention it— You know what, no I’m not going there right now. We’ve been over all that anyway.”

“Anyway,” Tim steadied himself and began pacing the room, “more to the point, you bailed on us! I’ll admit, I was happy to be rid of you but do you have _any_ idea what it did to Martin?”

Jon had the decency to look ashamed at that. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he left. Not even thinking to grab his coat when he left, he certainly hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences for anyone else. In fact, in all his time away he had been so wrapped up in his own… issues that it hadn’t occurred to him that the Archive staff might be suffering.

“And Melanie! Now she’s trapped here too. Martin couldn’t warn her away but I doubt that Elias would have pulled that little stunt if you were around. Then you had to go and rope Basira and that terrifying detective Daisy into this mess. I’m not the biggest fan of either of them but I wouldn’t wish this crap on anyone.

“You know what the worst thing about you leaving? It’s that you even _could_ leave.” Tim was practically shouting at this point. Talking with his hands nearly as loud as with his voice.

“I tried. I tried and it went… wrong. Some part of me is _attached_ to this place. When I tried to leave I felt it _pull_. Like a loose thread that starts to unravel your whole goddamned sweater. The longer I was away the less of me I had left. I think I got most of it back when I slunk back here with my tail between my legs. But not all, there’s something missing and I don’t think I’ll ever be fully whole again.

“Everything feels like it needs to be reassembled somehow, it’s a tangled mess of yarn that will never be a proper sweater again. I’ve been trying to figure out how to put all the bits of me back into something resembling a person. It’s exhausting and it hurts in a way… in a way that—It’s difficult to describe. My whole being, everything that makes me who I am as a person… I’m just slowly trying to reverse being _unmade_.”

He’d stopped pacing and leaned wearily against a patch of wall, sliding down to sit on the floor.

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t come back, that I’d let it… finish.”

“ _T_ _im, I—I didn’t…_ ” It wasn’t loud and it strained every aching muscle in his throat, but Jon managed to get it out. “ _I’m sorry_.”

“Yeah, well.”

An uneasy silence stretched between the two men. Tim pretended there was something very interesting on the floor by his feet while Jon’s eyes flitted back and forth between Tim and various random points in the room.

Eventually Tim broke the silence, his anger now fully spent. “Look, I’m not actually mad at you.  Not anymore. I was, for a long, but not now. Not at you directly, but maybe at what you represent in this whole thing. I’m mad at this place. At Elias for whatever bullshit he’s on about. The Institute messes with all of us. That’s not to say it excuses you for everything you did. You’re still an ass.

“It’s just, we’re all trapped here, in this place, and this situation.” Tim sighed, “I tried to escape and it kept a part of me behind, you tried and it looks like it dug in and followed you. We’re both stuck in this inescapable nightmare job.”

“ _Yeah.”_ Jon managed to croak out in agreement.

“You probably more than the rest of us, especially with that ridiculous thing on your arm. What the hell happened anyway?” Tim was beginning to sound more like his usual self.

“ _D-Det-Detective_ …” Jon coughed and gave up.  He gestured to Tim for a pen.

Tim’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and he looked impressed. “So you and Basira then, hm? You really did forget your safe word.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and winked. He knew full well what Jon was actually trying to say but he couldn’t resist the urge to break the tension by making his boss squirm, just a bit.  

The look of shock that crossed Jon’s face could only be described as “priceless”. He shook his head in vehement denial.  

“Yeah, no, I get it.  You pissed off Crazy Daisy and she left you here. She seems to really hate you or at least,” Tim chuckled, “your voice. I don’t suppose she left the keys around here somewhere?”

Jon shook his head no.

“Well, that’s unfortunate and I keep mine at home.”

Jon gave Tim a confused look before his eyes widened in comprehension.

“What? At one point I _did_ have a personal life, Jon. I hope to again someday.” He winked and pushed himself off the floor.

“Okay, I’m going to grab Martin and we’ll see if we can find Basira. I know she’s not police anymore but she might still have something that can open those cuffs.  Are you going to be alright here by yourself for a bit while I go do that?”

The concern that Tim had asked the question surprised Jon.  All of the other man’s anger had burned away and left him surprisingly compassionate. Jon shook his head yes and gestured for a pen again.

Tim pulled a steno notebook and a pen from the detritus on the desk surface. It was clear Jon hadn’t fully thought out his request.  While writing when you can’t speak is a common enough thing, the position the cuffs trapped him in meant that he couldn’t get close enough to the floor or the desktop to use either as a writing surface.  It wouldn’t have been a problem if Jon could properly use his other hand but the burns were still painful enough to touch to prevent any real use.

Tim spotted the overturned desk chair and decided that it would be close enough to the right height.  He righted the chair and brought it over to Jon so he could use it as an impromptu table.

“Are you up to drinking something? Do you want some tea? I can have Martin put the kettle on.”

Jon nodded and shot him an awkward thumbs-up.

“He’ll be thrilled that we actually have a problem he can solve by making tea.” He struck a dramatic pose resting his fists on his hips. In a booming voice he declared, “Martin Blackwood, your moment has come!”

As if to punctuate, the recorder clicked off.

Tim glanced at Jon, then in the direction of the small tape deck perched on a bookcase. “Huh,” looking back to Jon he asked, “has that been on the whole time?” Jon just shook his head and sighed wearily.  

“Right, of course it was.” Tim threw his hands up in exasperation. “Whatever, I’ll be back in a bit. Just,” he snorted in amusement, “just sit tight.”

Faintly chuckling, Tim turned and left.  He missed the withering glare Jon shot at his back.

 

* * *

 

Now that he finally had a means of communication, Jon was at a loss for words. He knew he should make some kind of apology but his thoughts were a tangled mess. Several false starts and pieces of crumpled paper later he’d managed to get something written down. 

He hurriedly flipped over the notebook when Tim came in holding two steaming mugs. He cocked an eyebrow and glanced to the notebook then back to Jon.

“Martin is still looking for Basira but I figured I’d come back down and keep you company. Tea?”

“ _Please.”_

“Careful, it’s hot.”

He took the offered mug and gingerly took a sip of the warm liquid. It burned and soothed at the same time. Tim or Martin had put a generous amount of honey his tea. He looked up to see Tim had swiped the notepad and begun to read. Jon made a noise of protest.

“Quiet, I’m reading.”

Jon pressed his lips together let out a long breath through his nose. At least he wasn’t reading it aloud.

 

_Tim,_

_I never intended for things to get how they ended up. I behaved rather poorly over the last several months. I could lay the blame at the feet of whatever it is that holds sway here but fault lies with me as well. You are indeed correct and I have been, “an ass,” as you put it. Going forward I endeavor to put more trust in you and Martin._  

_And Melanie and Basira, now that they are here._

_I worry about losing myself to this place. Becoming something that only pretends to be human. I don’t really know what is going on but I know that it is changing me and I’m scared._

 

Tim quietly placed the steno pad back on the chair. He took a long sip from his mug. “You’re not a monster, boss. You might have been a creeper, but you seem to be over that.”

Jon scribbled on the paper and waved to Tim for him to read it.

 

 _I have some kind of power that can_ compel _people. It happens without me trying to. Just asking an innocent question sent Daisy into a blind rage. I don’t know how to turn it off. Or if I can._

 

“Look, I know even less about what is going on than you do. But what I do know is that you are the biggest control freak I know.  If anyone can get a handle on having freaky supernatural powers, it’ll be you.” He patted Jon on the back and sat down against the desk next to the dejected Archivist.

“If it helps, I’ve got some of the X-Men movies on DVD I can loan you.  First Class has a pretty decent training montage and that James McAvoy as Charles Xavier sure is dreamy.”

Jon huffed out a laugh into his tea.

“I couldn’t find Basira, I think she’s gone home for the day.” Martin called out. His voice getting louder as he approached Jon’s office. “What did you need her for again—Oh!”

He stopped short as he saw the scene laid out before him and began to sputter. “Tim, you didn’t tell me about… this. Jon, are you alright?”

Jon gestured something to Martin that he hoped got the point across. He cleared his throat with a wince and drank more of his tea.

“Daisy choked him or punched him or something and now he can’t speak.”

“Oh, well, that’s… not good. But why do you need Basira?”

Jon rattled his cuffed hand and mimed turning a key.

“Right! Hmm. Well then.” Martin rubbed his chin and looked over the various office supplies on the desk. He dug out a paperclip from under a pile of pens and pulled it open. Crouching down, he grabbed Jon’s wrist and began to work at the lock.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done this, give me a second.”

Tim watched Martin with an appraising look like he was mentally refiling Martin into a completely different category.

“Almost got it… There!”

The lock tripped and the metal encircling Jon’s wrist slid open.

Now free, Jon went to rub his wrist to restore proper circulation.  He came up short with a hiss of pain as his bandaged hand made contact.

“Christ, Jon, you really are a mess.” Tim sighed, “Have you been to hospital to have your hand looked at?”

Jon shook his head no.

Tim levered himself to a standing position while making a disapproving noise.

“Right, well.” He hooked Jon under one arm and pulled him to his feet, “That’s our next stop then. You could probably do to have a professional check out your throat while we’re at it.”

Jon put his hands up and started to shake off Tim’s suggestion.

“Nope, nothing doing. If you’re going to start trusting me, now’s the time. We’re taking to see a proper doctor.”

Jon deflated and allowed Tim to steer him out of the office and through the Archives.

Martin had stopped to collect the discarded mugs of half-drunk tea along with Tim’s coat and the notepad Jon had been using. He hurried along after, reading as he went, and caught up to them as they were passing into the foyer.

“You forgot your coat again.” He said, handing it to Tim. “And you really need to stop leaving your dishes lying around.”

“Thanks, and sorry.”

Tim felt a sly smile grow on his face as Martin ducked into the kitchenette to drop off the mugs.

“Martin,” he called after the younger man, “Where did you learn to pick handcuffs?”

Martin reappeared into the foyer his face now a deep shade of crimson. Grinning sheepishly, he scratched the back of his head and glanced down to the floor. “Don’t ask.”


End file.
